On being the pie, and not the yarn ball

This past Saturday was my birthday. And man, every year on my birthday I get annoyingly introspective. And I know we ALL do that on our birthdays, but mine inevitably falls out on/around Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year, when we believe our fate for the year will be decided) or Yom Kippur (our “Day of Atonement” when our fate for the year is officially “sealed”), so I'm a real pleasure to be around at that time. I feel like most people hear “New Year's,” and you think “sparkly fake glasses and champagne.” (And also, if you happen to be in Times Square, “public ass-grabbings by drunken European tourists.”) Whatever. Point is, you’re probably not thinking about...you know, this:

On Rosh Hashanah it will be written and on Yom Kippur it will be sealed: how many will pass [from the earth], and how many will be created; who will live and who will die; who at his time, and who before his time; who by water and who by fire, who by sword, who by beast, who from hunger, who by thirst, who by storm, who by plague, who by strangulation, and who by stoning. Who will rest and who will wander, who will live in harmony and who will be harried, who will enjoy peace and who will suffer, who will be impoverished and who will be wealthy, who will be degraded and who will be exalted.”(translated by me and also, Wikipedia)

This prayer is a key part of both the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services, and it never fails to make me freak out, just a little bit. Because it’s scary, for sure, but also, like I said, in conjunction with my birthday, it makes me get all reflective about myself. At the risk of boring you (you know, even more than I have already with THE QUOTING OF PRAYERS, MY GOD, I am sorry for that), I’ll just say that after thinking about my 28th year, there’s no denying that it was, well, a really good one for many reasons.

That being said, I must admit that I feel like kind of a lazy douche.

I realized that a lot of the things that made my year great were things that happened to me, as opposed to things I actively made happen for myself. (Again: Lazy douche.) After thinking about it, I started thinking about the things I want, and what goals I could accomplish if I actually…attempted them. I have a grand and storied history of flinging myself into random new hobbies with GREAT FERVOR, and then growing disinterested in a matter of weeks. Or—-let’s be honest—-days. The massive yarn ball, for instance, that was supposed to be a baby blanket (FOR MY FIRST BABY), and yet, there it sits in my nightstand, judging me silently, getting all tangled up in my defenseless beaded necklaces, and generally being a smug-ass metaphor for my tendency to abandon projects midstream.

And so, I figured I should make a list—I do love lists so!—to force myself to focus on things I want to do over the coming year. Some of the items on the list are silly (e.g., learning the Thriller dance), some are less so (forcing self to drink more water, showing the kids more of the city, etc.), but all of them -—for a variety of reasons-—are important to me. Simply writing them down, and having the stupid list staring me in the face, boxes unchecked, MOCKING ME, compelled me to start crossing shit off. “Perfecting key lime pie,” you are officially ACCOMPLISHED. And DELICIOUS.

One specific item on the list is Really Up There, as far as goals go, and that is, uh, writing a book. I never before considered this, ever, but this is a very specific book, and one that was directly inspired by a suggestion that Roxanna made to me. I did not and do not fancy myself any sort of author, or memoirist, or diarist or whatever the hell, but this book...I dunno. I kind of feel like I can...maybe do it? It’s something I know, it’s something different, and something I feel like I can (hopefully) do well. It’s flowing already, and I mention it here only because doing so makes it more real, more "official," and commits me to it even further. It’s probably misguided and naïve to bother with it at all, but I’m trying (trying!) to view my ignorance as optimism, instead of colossal, times-wasting stupidity.

There are a metric ton of quotes out there about trying and failing, but I’m going to tailor their general message for me and just say that this year, I'm gonna aim to be the pie and not the yarn ball. Here’s to 29.

And...SHE'S OFF.

There's clearly a part of me that feels a flurry of high-pitched, shrieky encouragement accompanied by incessant clapping is a GOOD thing. (Fortunately for you, it's only six seconds long.)

Mothers, lock up your sons. She's perambulatin'! from metalia on Vimeo.

Ruminations on superior blogger outreach, and Nicolas Cage in a bear suit.

In the past year, I’ve seen an increasing number of discussions about poor marketing towards bloggers. Some of what I saw was constructive, and some of it was—-let’s be honest-- a pile-on. What struck me was that when I started thinking about it, I had a really hard time coming up with shining examples of people going on and on about good marketing. I'm as guilty of that as anyone else. While I think that good outreach should feel seamless and not ham-fisted, that doesn't mean that I can't take a minute and acknowledge the hard work that made it so.

The point of all of this is to commend Huggies (and Edelman, the PR agency through which they are represented) for their blogger outreach. I went to an event yesterday, and—wait. WAIT. Before you roll your eyes at me and this post in general, and before you tune out, thinking this is going to be a fluffy puff piece, just know this: I took off work yesterday to attend the event, went to the supermarket afterward…and then worked until 11:30 last night playing catch-up. I was in my office at 7 this morning doing the same. It's now a little after 1 a.m, and...well, here I am, writing the post that I wanted to write all day, but had no time to compose. I say this not because you need or want an accounting of my days and nights, but just to point out that, well, if I’m taking time out to write something here, it means something to me. Because I’m exhausted, and honestly, all I want to do right now is watch Glee and eat Chocolate Chex, and SLEEP, but–and no one hinted, requested or begged that I write this— good service deserves to be commended.

The email that I got inviting me to the event was targeted towards me, and contained a few relevant details which showed me that the sender had recently read my blog. I cannot tell you how that little bit of detail made me appreciate the time she took to do so. Every logistical aspect of the event was taken care of, and when I say every last detail, I mean “clean, safe carseat in the car that came to pick us up, crib waiting in hotel room, and all activities taking place in walking distance of hotel.” (Lo was invited to the event as well, which was to promote Little Movers diapers). Everything was genuinely kid-friendly, which made for a truly enjoyable experience, all around.The other bloggers were lovely, and Lo and I both had a great time with them. As an added bonus, we got to meet the gorgeous and incredibly sweet Angie Harmon, her baby Emery, and her husband (former NY Giants cornerback, HOLLA!), Jason Sehorn.

There was no hard sell here. We happen to be a family that bought Huggies before anyway (COSTCOOOO), but there was no obligation, direct or implied, set forth for the bloggers, to use, write about, or endorse the brand in any way. (My words, not theirs.) Again, I think quality outreach should be highlighted, and I appreciate all that went into creating this event, as well as the invitation that was extended to me and Lo to participate in it.

* * * * * * * *

I, uh, feel like such a namedropping douche right now, especially after mentioning Angie Harmon and Jason Sehorn, but the Fashion Week post where I talked to January Jones (OKAY, it was only for two minutes, BUT STILL.) can be found here.

* * * * * * * *

Speaking of January Jones, can we talk about Mad Men for a moment? Specifically, THE RIDING MOWER? OMG, what the HELL? I mean, I...wha? WHAT?

* * * * * * * *

I've kind of...had this years-long hatred of Nicolas Cage's acting skills. I can't recall if I've ever mentioned it here, but believe me, it's intense. Anyway, one of my friends who knows this about me sent me the following two clips. I have seen the movie in question, and I swear to you, IT IS REALLY LIKE THIS. I showed these to J earlier this evening and we laughed so loudly that we woke up T. Which, really, is just one more reason to hate Nicolas Cage. I'm crossing my fingers that it isn't one of those things that's only funny if you've seen the movie. (You'll tell me one way or the other, right?)

Watch this first to get a general sense of the unintentional hilarity. I call it "NOT THE BEEEEES!":



And then this:



I cannot begin to describe to you the immeasurable glee these videos bring me.

So, lists are My New Thing now, it seems.

1. Happy New Year to my fellow Jewish friends!

2. I hadn’t really verbalized this here, but I was starting to get the eensiest bit worried about the fact that Lo didn’t really seem interested in the whole walking thing. I mean, she was cruising, and she was getting the CONCEPT of walking, kind of, but her idea of getting it was “one step, two step, fling self bodily towards parent.” We'd decided that if she really wasn’t progressing by 15 months, I’d call the pediatrician and try to pass it off like I was casually speaking, all breezy-like, when in fact I was reading from a prepared page wherein I'd outlined my concerns, and as such, we would then undoubtedly have a super-stilted conversation where I would say things like “I am well, thank you for inquiring.” (Am I the only person that WRITES SCRIPTS for Difficult Conversations?) Well. As luck would have it, she took a whole mess of steps yesterday (15 months old TO THE DAY, wouldn’t you know). Every time she did, we’d lavish praise upon her, to the point that when we didn’t leap around shrieking “YAYYYYY!” and clapping, she would give us this quizzical look, all “Are you not recalling what comes next?” Clearly, this is an excellent precedent to have set.

3. It’s my birthday on Saturday. And I tell you, HONESTLY, that I completely forgot until J brought it up this morning. Isn’t that sad?

4. Regarding my last post, I did, in fact get to meet someone from Mad Men; specifically, January Jones. I know. I KNOW. I’m writing a whole post about that (as well as some of the other people I spoke to and events I attended at Fashion Week) for BlogHer, and I’ll post a link once that’s up. Also? While I’m on the subject of future posts, I have an “Ask a Jew” post I’ve been working on FOREVER, which will be posted soon. (I haven’t forgotten!)

5. So, it was a resounding “YES” on the release of my workout playlist, then. It's an ever-evolving, work in progress, so feel free to add your favorites! Wait--scratch that; PLEASE add your favorites!

Britney- Toxic, Womanizer, Circus, Radar
Rihanna -Disturbia
A.R. Rahman - Jai Ho (the Slumdog Millionaire song)
Bloc Party- Banquet
Cobrastyle- Robyn
Eye of the Tiger - Survivor
Hazy Shade of Winter- Bangles
Hung Up - Madonna
I Fell in Love with the DJ - Che'Nelle
Low- T-Pain
Right Round - T-Pain
Thriller/Beat It/Smooth Criminal - Michael Jackson
Hot Like Wow - Nadia Oh
So What - Pink
Mercy - Duffy
Next Episode - Snoop
Ooh La La- Goldfrapp
LoveGame/Just Dance - Lady Gaga
Party Up (Up in Here) - DMX
SexyBack-Justin Timberlake
Sour Cherry- Midnight Boom
Stronger- Kanye West
Pump It – Black Eyed Peas
Very Loud- Shout Out Louds
A-Punk / Walcott- Vampire Weekend
Wake Up -Arcade Fire
Hoedown Throwdown - Miley Cyrus (Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.)
Work It- Missy Elliot
Bang Bang - K’naan (Feat. Adam Leviiiiiiiine...I have to say his name like Maya Rudolph on SNL. It’s a compulsion.) (Thanks for the suggestion, Casey!)
Enjoy!

Five things of (mostly) trivial importance that I'm nonetheless sharing

1. We now have a refrigerator in our bedroom. A few weeks ago, after my brother's wedding, he was engaged in the time-honored tradition called "Congratulations! You Moved Out! Now Remove Your Damn Shit From Mom and Dad's Garage Before They Give It Away." J and I were at my parents' house that day, and as my brother was moving stuff, J spied my brother's minifridge, left over from college, sitting unwanted in a corner. Somehow, J decided that our current refrigerator was now INSUFFICIENT for our beverage needs, and that we needed to take the minifridge home. I still do not entirely comprehend the presented rationale, but I'm vaguely recalling something about "saving time walking all the way to the kitchen if we need a drink." And let's be clear, here: We do not live in the the Bachelor mansion. Or the Real World house. Or even one of those double-wide trailers from Wife Swap. Our dwelling is a NEW YORK APARTMENT, which are not exactly reknowned for their size. The kitchen is, TOPS, 30 steps from our bedroom. I mean, really.

However, I'm all about The Strategery, so I was like, "J, if you're willing to come to a detente with regard to your ill feelings towards my Clothing Chair of Doom, then I'll allow the minifridge in our bedroom." And he was all, "DEAL!" and now there is a wee refrigerator up in here, AND my chair still has Monday's blouse, Tuesday's trousers, and what appears to be a book jacket splayed across it. Everybody wins!

I must admit, though, that having the fridge in here? Is...well, I'm kind of enjoying it. Cold water in the morning? It's here! Frozen Rolos craving during Glee? They're here! Diet Orange Sunkist at 2 a.m.? OH, YOU'D BEST BELIEVE IT'S HERE. Shhh. Don't tell J that I'm enjoying it. [Sneakily sips cold soda, eats 37 frozen Rolos.]

2. I keep seeing previews for the remake of Fame, as well as the season premiere of The Hills, which seems a good a time as any to mention that I have huge, undying girlcrushes on (former SYTYCD contestant/now-Fame star) Kherington Payne and Kristin Cavallari. So...I have a type, apparently?

3. This.

4. I've taken it upon myself of late to craft The World's Most Perfect Workout Playlist. It's a work in progress, sure, but I'm quite proud of it. Is this something you'd be interested in seeing here?

5. Okay, so this one is actually noteworthy. YOU GUYS. I am doing Fashion Week-related stuff tomorrow evening, stuff about which I'm so excited that I am loath to get into detail. And that's NOT to be annoying, and invite you to be all "OH METALIA,WE ARE EVER SO CURIOUS! DO TELL, PLEASE!"

(And for some reason, as I'm typing that, I'm hearing that statement in the voices of the children from Mary Poppins, but that's neither here nor there.)

No, I do this FOR FEAR OF JINXING, you see, the tempting of fate, so I'll just say that it involves, among other things, potentially meeting someone from a show that we all know and love, which rhymes with...Shmad Shmen. (See? Take that, fate.) I'm nervous and thrilled, and generally wriggling around like a puppy, so I'm getting through the anticipation the same way I handle all Big Things, both good and bad: I just tell myself that by this time tomorrow, it will have happened. I know, I know. Barf. Fetch me a desktop sand garden, for I am BRIMMING with zen!

(I will of course tell you the HELL out of whatever happens tomorrow night, I just gotta get through it first!)

(Wish me luck! EEEEEEEEP!)

Gah-Guhm, Gah-Guhm

When I was about nine years old, one of my friends had a sleepover party, and as we all made our way down to her rumpus room (that’s a thing, right?), she breathlessly bragged about the movie her mom had rented for us to watch. “It’s DIRTY DANCING!” she stage whispered.

I came from the type of house where you did not watch PG movies without parental guidance, and you CERTAINLY didn’t watch PG-13 movies before you were 13.

This would change in later years, as the house rules became increasingly lax with each successive child, to the point that my youngest brother, my curfew-free, sweet-talking youngest brother, was somehow permitted to have a hookah in his bedroom (“it’s decorative,” he’d explain patiently), and dye his hair colors not usually found in nature (“it was the sunlight,” he’d calmly repeat), BUT I DIGRESS.

With that in mind, though, you would not be surprised to learn that I was therefore thrilled to see this illicit movie. I mean, it was clearly not meant for people our age, what with the rating, the title, and the couple totally almost kissing on the cover, my god. So off we scampered, giggling, and munching popcorn. I remember only a few random details about the evening in general, such as the fact that we all made fun of one of our friends there because she brought her blankie (What?! Nine-year-old girls are arguably the biggest assholes in the world.), and that I was wearing a Strawberry Shortcake nightgown. However, I remember with almost eerie clarity the experience of watching Dirty Dancing for the first time.

Even though pivotal portions of the plot went over my head (“Knocked up”? Crazy old cougar woman draping herself all over Johnny? Dirty knife and a table? Lisa storming off from Robbie in a huff? WHAT DID IT ALL MEAN?), I was transfixed. As a bunch of awkward Jewish girls from the mean streets of suburban New Jersey, we all kind of...related to Baby, and swooned along in unison as she (SPOILER ALERT! Heh.) got the guy. I watched it time and again over the coming years; it was on WPIX almost every Sunday, and on a seemingly endless loop on TBS. I hacked my jeans into cut-offs like Baby’s, and purchased a poster of Patrick Swayze in a form-fitting black tank top (ooh, la la!) which I strategically placed behind my door, so I could gaze upon his visage. I do believe I employed the term “hunky” to describe the poster, at the time.

That movie is a touchstone; who among us hasn’t said something AT LEAST as moronic as “I carried a watermelon” when chatting with a cute guy? Who among us hasn’t jokingly-haughtily pantomimed “my dancing space/your dancing space” after hitting the dance floor at a party? Or used “Real original; the Pachanga.” as a subtly derisive catchall for someone else’s dull-ass idea? And yes, upon reflection, perhaps the last one is, in actuality, just a super weird thing that only I do, but the point stands. The movie was a huge part of a collective pop culture experience, due in no small part to those iconic moments (and of course, the legendary placement of Baby in the corner, and Johnny’s subsequent chivalrous defense).

Dirty Dancing is cheesy, contrived, and the acting is occasionally (unintentionally) hilarious. But honestly? It’s one of the few things I’ll watch from any point, should I happen across it while flipping through the channels, EVEN IF it’s playing with commercials. And honestly, in this day and age, I can’t think of a greater testament to a movie’s power than that. Rest in peace, Swayze.

Last week, five senses-style. (Alternate title: My clever ploy to force you to look at vacation photos.)

I was thinking that there was no real way to classify all the experiences of our vacation in an organized format, and then, after making a list of some highlights (no, YOU shut up.), it hit me: It all actually broke down quite nicely into the five senses. Which sounds kind of odd, nerdy, and gimmicky, but honestly, this post was destined to be all over the place, and this construct kind of reeled me in a bit. (I *think* I may have done a post in this style eons ago, but really, who can remember? Onward!)

TOUCH

Remember how I talked about the evil clown my family made me pose with at the county fair? Yeah, here she is. EMBRACING ME. And I swear to you, I have dissolved into actual shudders thinking about her stupid clown perm grazing my neck and shoulders, and her foam clown boob hitting my arm. My enjoyment of this experience is palpable, is it not?

Here, however, are some decidedly less clown-filled "touch" moments:





SIGHT

Oh, WHERE to begin with this one? I suppose the following picture best exemplifies the manner in which this particular sense can be assaulted, courtesy of a booth at the county fair. Feast your eyes. FEAST THEM, I SAY.

I am in dire need of both a dreamcatcher pendant and pensive horse t-shirt.

Later in the week, I got together with Torrie. Now, it's mildly hilarious that we live, like, 10 miles apart, and yet it took respective family trips to the Poconos to get the kids together for a playdate...

...and of course, some good old-fashioned scrunchie posing at, uh, Ye Olde Scrunchie Standde...

...but I'll take it.

Finally in this this category, I submit to you this picture, taken as we were entering the stadium during T's first professional baseball game (what up, Scranton Yankees?). I adore it.

We (and he!) had a great time:



TASTE

One night after the kids were asleep, J, my brother and I went on a late-night run to the supermarket because...I don't know. It's all about simple pleasures up at the lake house, people. I'm absolutely certain the cashier (erroneously!) thought we were high, considering that our purchases consisted of oddly-flavored chips, assorted candies, soda, and...a 7Up Creme Cake. I was frightened, intrigued, and hungry (BUT not high. NOT HIGH, I SWEAR.) so into our basket it went.



We got back to the house and everyone mocked my purchase, myself included. But then I tried it, and it was absolutely amazing, so I wandered around literally FOISTING large hunks of cake on people at nearly midnight, which is both considerate and healthy. And my entire family--well, all of them who went along with my cake foisting ways--had precisely the same reaction: Supplementary mocking, followed by acceptance of cake (ostensibly to shut me up), begrudging tasting of cake, shocked widening of eyes, and MAD DASH BACK TO CAKE. YOU KNOW, SO AS TO EAT MORE OF IT. Moral of the story: 7Up cake is delicious.

I did not try this freaky-ass hamburger cake (which we also spied in the supermarket that night), but something tells me it does not taste as good as the 7Up one.



SOUND

J and I became obsessed with Iron & Wine's cover of the Flaming Lips song, "Waitin' on a Superman" during our trip. The lyrics are kind of depressing, but the sound is gorgeous; I defy you to find a more perfect windows-down-driving-on-quiet-moonlit-country-roads-at-night-just-enjoying-the-ride (but-also-hoping-Kurt-Russell-slash-Stuntman-Mike-isn't-driving-the-Death-Proof-car-behind-you) song.

Other trip faves: Andrew Bird's cover of "The Giant of Illinois," (see above, re: depressing lyrics, pretty sound), Sufjan Stevens' "You Are The Blood," Belle & Sebastian's "Sleep Around the Clock," Prince's "Kiss," and Miley Cyrus' "Hoedown Throwdown." I...can't explain that last one, really, other than to say that it's kicky! I work out to it! The kids like it! Or...something! (J would like the world to know that he is horrified by my repeat playing of said song, he had nothing to do with it, and would very much like it to go away.)

SMELL

The interior of our (relatively new) car decided yesterday that it wanted to smell awful, and it is a mystery as to how this occurred. Perhaps you, unlike me, have never walked home from school one rainy middle school day and put your wet wool sweater in a plastic bag, proceeding to forget about it, and then, finding the forgotten, moldy sweater almost two months later, now possessing an almost intoxicatingly overpowering stench, not unlike that of an ancient cat, but I tell you, if you have done that? It's not a smell you forget. Anyway, our car smells like that. Oh, and also, the inside of a bowling shoe. It came out of NOWHERE, which is the most maddening part. J and I literally sniffed the car from top to bottom, searching for an errant sour milk-filled bottle, or, (God help me) a dead animal, but found nothing. The odor is just...there. Unfortunately, this can mean only one thing: a trip to our scary car wash for one of their classily-named car air freshener sheets!



Smelly car and freaky clown aside, however? Vacation was perfect.

Vacation, So Far

Ooh, look at that! The wifi is functional!

I am writing this, beer in hand, on a so-comfortable-it-should-be-illegal couch, in a lake house in the middle of the Pocono mountains. I'm full of barbecue and fresh-picked corn. J is to my left, eating sour gummy...amoebae, or something (seriously, these things look horrifying), my kids are napping upstairs, and my parents are chatting on the deck. In short, it's downright blissful. Since J spent most of last night ensconced in a Very Important Fantasy Football Draft, I figured that I, too, could take a few minutes now and reacquaint myself with the internet.

1. I, uh, wasn't kidding about reacquainting myself. Our connection here is intermittent, and I'm woefully out of touch. That being said, am I to understand that Macaulay Culkin really fathered Blanket Jackson? I...what? WHAT? Really? Can that possibly be true? Because I just heard two women discussing it at the County Fair, and I wanted to ask them about it, but I didn't want to be That Girl, you know? The one who pops up in the middle of your private conversation, with a grin that, to her, appears totally friendly and normal, because she is trying to show you that she's totally sane, but to the people she's interrupting, appears half-crazed and menacing? And really, I know of which I speak, because there are some right lunatics that frequent my grocery store, and if ever I run into a friend there, and talk about ANYthing, say, birch beer, I can guarangoddamnTEE you one of them will pop up, all "you think you know about birch beer? I CAN TELL YOU ABOUT BIRCH BEER, YOUNG LADY."

2. Our movie selection up here is limited, and someone to whom I am married suggested that we watch Twilight earlier this week. And really, I can't think of a better movie to watch in a remote cabin in the woods, surrounded by the forest, and deer which may or may not be shapeshifters. WHAT THE HELL, J. And speaking of which, Jonna had mentioned a few weeks ago that while also in her family's lake house, had nightmares about True Blood's Maryann climbing the cabin walls, and, you know, ripping out her heart. To which I say, THANKS, JONNA, because while you know I love you, I'm now I'm similarly afflicted with this fear. Other pop culture- induced lake house fears include Cabin Fever plague, sundry Twighlight Zone-ish things, Friday the 13th, and finally, that movie I can't remember right now, but Liv Tyler screams and those freaky homicidal maniacs wear masks and talk calmly to them. Oh, and the creepy mask-wearing girl swings slowly and creepily on a swingset.

3. I now kind of hate my entire family (well, all of them who are currently here with me) because they made me pose with an INDUBITABLY MURDEROUS LADY CLOWN at the county fair we attended earlier today. (She was making balloon animals for the kids, sure, but I was on to her little game.) I was holding Lo at the time, so they were all, "oh, the baby will LOVE the clown! let's get a picture!" COULROPHOBIA IS NO LAUGHING MATTER, ASSHOLES. When Maryann and/or the creepy mask people come in the night, don't expect me to protect you. (Picture of me and lady clown to follow. I'm sure I look enthused in it.)

4. J and I took a trip to WalMart yesterday. "Quel romantico!" you're probably thinking. But the thing is, we don't have one nearby at home, and we kind of look forward to our yearly pilgrimage there, because, really, the things I learn. For example:

~People (hunters, I'm hoping, and not fetishists?) apparently require various forms of deer excrement for...well, for what, I don't know, but it's packaged and sold in a store, is what I'm saying.

~ HAHAAAA. I'm sorry. I'm 12. But this is the best-named product ever. EVER.



~Randy Jackson has an eyewear line. All the jokes I'm coming up with are annoyingly predictable ("You did your thing; you took those frames and made 'em your own," etc.), but something about this is so delightfully random.

~Also, I'm sorry AGAIN, but the people of WalMart site? IS FUNNY BECAUSE IT'S TRUE.

~Perhaps it's that I'm in Pennsylvania (i.e., official Gosselin territory) but I noticed an alarming amount of Kate Gosselin hairstyles on women in (and out) of WalMart. ON YOUNG GIRLS, EVEN.

5. I am terribly sad that karaoke night--which used to be the highlight of our time up here...for me, anyway--is no more. However, its absence does leave me with more time in the evenings to booby-trap our windowsill against the aforementioned malevolent forces, so I suppose its for the best.

6. T just woke up, so I'm off to play our newly-invented game of WonderPets, which involves hiding a baby penguin doll, and then eating celery (licorice) when we "find" it.

Life is good.